Maltese Vulture Murder

by Leslie Langtry

  "I moonlight as hospital security. Dad used to work there, and they have a nacho machine, so…" His words tapered off as he was distracted by Agnes eating a chocolate sundae.

  I snapped my fingers in front of his face. "Focus, Kevin! You were saying?"

  He turned his dull gaze on me. "Oh. Yeah. Well, I saw the gurney going by itself down the hall and thought, Cool. Ghost Gurney."

  I leaned forward. "And?"

  "I leaked it on Snapchat. Didn't know it would go viral."

  I looked both ways to make sure we weren't overheard. Rex still didn't know about my breaking into the morgue, and I was hoping he never would.

  "What about the other video? Why didn't you leak that too?"

  Kevin wiped his hands on his uniform. "I saw those planet guys…Sun and Moon."

  I decided not to correct him, as those two things weren't planets. "And?"

  "Then I saw you with that weird bird." The officer paused to pull a candy bar out of his pocket. He peeled the wrapper off.

  I took it from him. "Why didn't you leak that video? Or turn it in?"

  "Dunno"—he shrugged—"didn't want to get you in trouble."

  After standing there in shock for a few moments, I realized that Kevin was eating the candy bar, out of my hand. I quickly handed it over and thanked him for something I never thought he'd do.

  "Whatever," Kevin said. "Hey, you got any more of that cake?"

  The next day, a very puzzled Rex delivered the rest of my cake to Officer Kevin Dooley. I never did tell him why.

  A few days after that, Rex came into the living room to find Nellie Lou in all her glory, in the middle of the coffee table. Philby sat on the couch with me, staring intently at it, but making no move to come near it. Leonard was hiding under the couch, trembling.

  "What happened?" he asked as he sat down. "Just the other day these two were desperate to rip her apart."

  I held up a remote control and clicked it.

  "SQUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWK" Nellie's beak opened and screeched loud enough to be heard in the next county.

  Leonard whimpered loudly, but Philby sat where she was, unwilling to move away from her intended prey.

  "You rigged it to screech?" Rex asked.

  I nodded. "I didn't want them wrecking her before Mr. Fancy Pants sees her. It's rigged to go off if I hit the remote. And if I'm gone, I can set it to motion sensors."

  What I didn't tell my husband was that I'd used this exact technology in Panama when trying to scare a mime assassin (yes, that's a real thing) into fleeing the country. I had a ventriloquist's dummy in a clear glass box (sadly, he didn't get the joke) tell the mime that he knew he'd been "talking." He was never seen in Panama again, although he was spotted a week later working as a rodeo clown in Tunisia. I've heard he's quite good.

  Rex looked under the couch and coaxed Leonard out. The dog was trembling.

  "I guess it works on him," he said as he scratched the terrified dog's ears. "But is it enough to scare Philby?"

  The cat accepted those words as a challenge and leaped closer to Nellie Lou, staring her down, which might've worked, had she not been dead.

  "I've planned for that." I hit another button on the remote.

  Nellie Lou's beak opened, and she screeched, "BOBB!"

  Philby hissed so hard she shot backwards off the coffee table. With a dangerous look of feline fury and what little dignity she still possessed, she got back on her feet and trotted out of the room.

  "I guess you've thought of everything." Rex took me into his arms and kissed me.

  "You have no idea," I said before kissing him back. Then I pressed the remote button three times.

  "Where are we going, since you lost the bet?" Nellie squawked.

  "For starters…" Rex threw me over his shoulder and carried me upstairs to the bedroom.

  As he closed the door behind us, I wondered why he hadn't noticed the brochures for a trip to the king vulture sanctuary in South America. Oh well.

  I'd show them to him later. After all, I'd already bought the tickets…

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Leslie Langtry is the USA Today bestselling author of the Greatest Hits Mysteries series, Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations, the Merry Wrath Mysteries, the Aloha Lagoon Mysteries and several books she hasn't finished yet, because she's very lazy.

  Leslie loves puppies and cake (but she will not share her cake with puppies) and thinks praying mantids make everything better. She lives with her family and assorted animals in the Midwest, where she is currently working on her next book and trying to learn to play the ukulele.

  To learn more about Leslie, visit her online at: http://www.leslielangtry.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY LESLIE LANGTRY

  Merry Wrath Mysteries

  Merit Badge Murder

  Mint Cookie Murder

  Scout Camp Murder (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  Marshmallow S'More Murder

  Movie Night Murder

  Mud Run Murder

  Fishing Badge Murder (short story in the Pushing Up Daisies collection)

  Motto for Murder

  Map Skills Murder

  Mean Girl Murder

  Marriage Vow Murder

  Mystery Night Murder

  Meerkats and Murder

  Make Believe Murder

  Maltese Vulture Murder

  Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:

  Ukulele Murder

  Ukulele Deadly

  Greatest Hits Mysteries:

  'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

  Guns Will Keep Us Together

  Stand By Your Hitman

  I Shot You Babe

  Paradise By The Rifle Sights

  Snuff the Magic Dragon

  My Heroes Have Always Been Hitmen

  Greatest Hits Mysteries Holiday Bundle

  Other Works:

  Sex, Lies, & Family Vacations

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first Aloha Lagoon Mystery:

  UKULELE MURDER

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

  CHAPTER ONE

  If anyone requests "Ukulele Lady," I'm out of here. I'm not going to do it. Not again. Not for the millionth time. Is that the only song tourists know? Yeesh. Please, tiki god of the Ukulele, don't let me kill a tourist today.

  "'Ukulele Lady!'" a dumpy, middle-aged man in a Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirt screams. He gives me a knowing nod with his balding head to indicate he's the only one in the room who knows true Hawaiian culture.

  I hate him. I imagine bludgeoning him with my koa wood uke.

  But I don't. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of koa wood? Well…I don't know either, but I'd guess it isn't easy.

  Instead, I play the damn song—smiling as I imagine shoving his pineapple drink up his…

  The crowd cheers as I perform. I know—it's not so bad having an adoring audience. But this isn't the audience I want. This is Judah Horowitz's bar mitzvah. One of the few gigs I could get in Aloha Lagoon.

  My name is Hoalohanani Johnson. My mother, Harriet Jones Johnson, is a bit of a Hawaiian-obsessed nut. It's so bad that it's to the point where she believes she is the reincarnation of a Hawaiian princess and says that my name came from a dream from an ancestor god. In reality, it probably came from the bottom of a rum bottle.

  To her endless annoyance, my redheaded, green-eyed mom comes from a long line of English ancestors and grew up in Kansas. Dad was a third-generation blond, brown-eyed German whose name was shortened to Johnson due to the inability to pronounce whatever the name really was. Neither of my parents had ever been to Hawaii until Mom and I moved here after Dad died.

  I go by Nan
i. And I now live in Aloha Lagoon on the Hawaiian island of Kauai, with my mother, who now calls herself Haliaka and dyes her hair and eyebrows a ridiculous shade of black that does not look natural. I've never understood where my dark-brown hair comes from, but I look more native than she does. Always dressed in a muumuu, Mom wears hibiscus flowers in her hair and hangs out on my lanai, singing island songs all day and night, much to my neighbors' dismay. Sigh.

  I finish my set, tell the crowd "aloha," and am cut off by the DJ who decides suddenly to play a gangsta rap song.

  "Thank you!" Gladys Horowitz of Trenton, New Jersey, and Judah's mother, slips an envelope into my hands before running to the dance floor to shimmy disturbingly. Thirteen-year-old Judah hangs his head in shame.

  I make my way through the crowd to the bar and order a decidedly un-Hawaiian vodka tonic.

  "Here's the ten bucks I owe you." The bartender smiles, handing me money.

  I gulp my drink, slapping an empty glass on the bar. "I told you, someone requests it every time." I take his money and head to my car. My shift in hell is over.

  I did not study music at Juilliard for this. And no, Juilliard doesn’t have a ukulele program. I started with classical guitar, but once I discovered the ukulele, I developed an independent study program for the diminutive instrument.

  And yet, here I am in paradise, playing gigs like this bar mitzvah and teaching fingerstyle ukulele to kids. My dream of being a ukulele virtuoso, hailed by critics and in demand as a performer, was rudely interrupted by reality.

  Which means I'm a white outsider from Kansas in a state full of true, native Hawaiian musicians. They call me malihini—which means newcomer. Things are different from the mainland. Hawaii has many words to remind you that you don't really belong here.

  I can't complain, because I get by. I have ten students—all from a local military base—play parties like today's or in a few bars on weekends, and am the regular musician at the Elvis-inspired Blue Hawaii Wedding Chapel. And my inheritance from Dad helps me keep Mom flush with hibiscus-flower leis and mai tais. But this is not the way I pictured my life.

  My biggest problem is my competition. There are three native Hawaiian ukulele musicians on this island. They play the big luaus at the huge resort in this town. They teach and lecture at the local community college. And they play at all the holidays, official commemoration events, and in the two concert halls on Kauai.

  They're good—real good. Alohalani Kealoha is a 50-year-old professor at Aloha Lagoon Community College. I probably know him better than I know the others—but even that qualifies as barely. As the only one of the Terrible Trio who's somewhat nice, he is actually fairly complimentary. His exact words? "Doesn't suck."

  Then there's Kahelemeakua Lui, or Kua, as he's known locally. He's young—in his 20’s, I think. A serious child prodigy, Kua travels all over the world performing when he's not surfing here at home. He's a lot more open in his hatred of me—I've heard murmurs that he's afraid I'm better than him—something I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want me to know. I don't know him very well, but I've heard he calls me "that mainland pretender." Nice.

  Last but not least is Leilani O'Flanagan. Only half Hawaiian, or hapa, she's a cutthroat 30-year-old musician who has a killer instinct and brutal temperament. I avoid her socially. If she thinks you're competition, she'll do anything in her power to destroy you. In fact, I've never heard anything nice about her. Rumor is she was raised by rabid badgers. The only nice thing she ever said about me had three expletives and an exclamation point. I have no idea if Kua and Alohalani hang out with her. I wouldn't.

  Don't get me wrong. I've seen all three perform, and they're all brilliant. It would be beneath me (and 100 percent true) to say I wish they'd move away or die peacefully in their sleep of natural causes. Okay, so maybe Leilani could get eaten by a shark. That would be okay.

  It's late afternoon when I toss my ukulele on the front seat of my car and head to the Aloha Lagoon Resort for a concert on Polynesian music. The bar mitzvah made me a little late, but I'm hoping I'll be there in time to see most of it.

  Leaving my instrument in the car, I race into the concert just in time to see Alohalani performing with a group of visiting dancers from Tahiti. I grab a bottle of beer from the bar and settle in to watch. He's good. Better than good—Alohalani is probably the best I've seen since I'd moved here. Even so, I wish it was me up there playing the ukulele.

  "Hey, haole." Kua sidles up as Alohalani plays "Aloha O'e," my favorite piece—it was written by Hawaii's last queen. "Bet you wish that was you up there," he snickers. Great. The fun begins. I was kind of hoping to be off the radar here so I could relax and enjoy it. I guess that's not happening.

  I turn to him. "And I'd be willing to bet you wish the same thing." I smile. "I wonder why they didn't ask you to play?"

  Kua turns into a beet-red tower of volcanic rage. "I'm sure it's a 'respect for your elders' thing." He doesn't look like he meant that. Apparently, I've hit a nerve. "You mainlanders have no respect for our ways!"

  To my dismay, Leilani joins us. She'd apparently seen Kua get pissed and decided to come rub it in.

  "I miss all the fun." She grins meanly. "Both of you upset they went with Alohalani?" She sips from a huge daiquiri that looks like it has more umbrellas than alcohol. Not that I mind. But I have heard that Leilani is even worse when she drinks.

  "Don't put me in the same league as her!" Kua thunders. This guy has a serious temper.

  "Oh?" Leilani's eyebrows go up, as if she's surprised by his reaction. "And why's that?"

  I know she just asked that question because once again she wants to hear how unqualified I am to be playing a traditional Hawaiian instrument. She lives for moments like that.

  "Because she's not Hawaiian! Not even a local," Kua growls. "She can't understand the nuances of the music because she didn't grow up here!" He shoves an index finger in her face. "And you! You're half haole! And don't you forget it!" He gives us one last sneer before storming away.

  Leaving me with the worst of the Terrible Trio. Great.

  Leilani bridles, nostrils flaring. "That bastard. He's just jealous that a woman can play better than a man!"

  "I agree," I say, even though I know she isn't taking a stand for female musicians everywhere. Leilani does not mean me. She means herself.

  She gives me a sharp look. "Why don't you just go back home and quit stirring up trouble?" Leilani O'Flanagan curses under her breath. "Things were fine until you showed up!" She stalks off in the direction of the bar.

  Yes, that's right, they all blame me for just about everything bad, even though I know that before I arrived, those two, Kua and Leilani, had duked it out many times over who should get what gig. I turn back to the stage to see the performers are taking a break.

  "Nice job!" I say brightly to Alohalani as he sits at a table, nursing a glass of water. Why not be civil to one of them? Someday he might want to do a duet, and I would be the lesser of two evils. Maybe.

  The older man looks up at me. Alohalani is still fairly attractive. He's stayed in shape through the years, with only a little gray at the temples.

  "Mahalo." He motions for me to take a seat. I jump at the chance and obey immediately. "It is too bad you weren't born here," he says softly.

  I flinch. Yes, I know I'm an outsider. These three fling it in my face every chance they can. Other natives and locals had been warm, welcoming, and wonderful when I'd moved here. Like my friend Binny. She comes from several generations of Hawaiians. She isn't like these three. Her family is practically my 'ohana. Which, by the way, means family.

  "Are we ever going to get past this?" I ask with a sigh.

  Alohalani looks at Kua and Leilani, who are now engaged in an epic argument. I expect human-propelled glassware to fly through the air at any moment.

  "Unfortunately, no. It's not completely your fault. You are a better player than Leilani and probably equal to Kua. But this is how our culture is."

  "
You think I'm equal to Kua's talent?" I ask. I know I am, if not better. But I could never say it out loud. The culture here shies away from bragging. Being humble is held up as an ideal. I wonder why Kua and Leilani don't know that. Or they do and don't care.

  Alohalani ignores my question. "Musicians, like any artist, have fragile egos." He looks at me for a long time. "I'm sure you understand that."

  I bite back a response. Arguing with him won't help me in the least. This guy is a legend around here. If I turn him into an enemy, I might as well move back to Kansas. At least there, I was the only ukulele player.

  "Well," he says as he places his hands on his knees and hoists himself to his feet. "Back to work."

  And that is as close as I'll ever get to a compliment, even though he made it clear I had no business touting myself as a ukulele virtuoso here. Well, you work with what you're given, I guess. Still, I have to admit, he had said I was better than Leilani. That in and of itself is a win. I'd go home tonight a little happier.

  I stay in my seat up front. It seems rude not to keep it, especially since I was invited to sit there by the performer himself. The remainder of the concert is amazing. A couple of times, I hear Leilani shriek at someone at the back of the room, but I ignore it. When the performance ends, I join the rest of the crowd for a standing ovation. Unfortunately, Alohalani doesn't come back and sit with me. Oh well. It's time to go home anyway. It's almost dinnertime, and Mom will be expecting me to throw something together.

  As I pass through the parking lot, I spot Kua standing about 50 feet away, staring at the beach. After a second or two, he starts walking toward it. I toy with calling out and saying something brilliant, but I really need to see what mischief Mom is up to.